


Care

by MamaMystique



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM aftercare, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2084067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaMystique/pseuds/MamaMystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You did well,” Bedelia purrs softly, her hands delicately stroking his cheeks, “very, very well.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> Written based on elavaretto's beautiful, nsfw art of Bedannibal (http://elavaretto.tumblr.com/post/92354167985/even-manipulative-cannibals-need-aftercare#notes) that I adore to absolute pieces - I figured I should return the favor of a fan art request fill with some fan fiction to go with it!

“You did well,” Bedelia purrs softly, her hands delicately stroking his cheeks, “very, very well.”

Hannibal’s resulting exhale is shaky, trembling, practically verging on a sob except that he is not crying. Just recovering. Resting.

Bedelia has him drawn gently against her, his face resting in the curve of her neck. She smells sweet, like flowers and sheets and sweat formed in the throes of passion. She loses herself sometimes with him. He loves it when she does. The first time, she felt guilty, apologized, tried to withdraw. But Hannibal refused all such gestures.

“Please,” he had whispered, perhaps even begged, “please.”

Her thumbs come to rest on the tears slipping down to his chin and wipe them away. She knows they were not shed in pain, but in the final moments of release. “Would you like to clean up?” There is still an edge to her voice, the sharp point of power. Hannibal knows that this will always be what she truly craves of him; to break him so that she may see him exposed, then slowly, slowly build him back up. That way she’ll know, always, of one constant part of him that lies beneath the veil he has created of himself.

He shakes his head, just barely, brushing his nose against her collarbone. “Not…not yet.” He is so tired.

Bedelia hums to him, smoothing his hair before dropping her fingers to trace near the marks she gifted his body. The harsh, red, angry imprints of her teeth on his shoulder, his chest, his abdomen. The raw skin of his wrists, where she once again proved that her knots were cruelly effective in their ability to restrain him.

Hannibal takes in a deep breath, tipping his head against her to look down her body. A bra of dark crimson complimented the blonde of her hair, the blue of her eyes. The matching underwear was still slightly pushed to the side, from where she had briefly allowed him to taste her, to know her pleasure in her work. Deep blue, sheer fabric hung from her frame now too, a gift he had given her to replace the one she had been forced to leave behind at her home along with most of her belongings.

“The red is beautiful on you,” he mumbles.

A small laugh escapes her. “I thought you might enjoy it as much as I did.”

In response he presses a light kiss to her skin, before finally drawing back to look at her.

Hannibal can see the adoration in her eyes as she takes in the sight of him, weary and unguarded – or as unguarded as he can be. Her head tilts and she smiles. “Thank you,” she offers.

He means to say ‘my pleasure,’ and make her smile even wider, but suddenly he is collapsed against her once more, the exhaustion truly settling into his muscles. Bedelia’s arms are around him at once, catching him and carefully laying him down against the soft sheets and pillows of their bed. “Easy,” she warns, running her palms over him and pressing him into the cool embrace of the mattress. “Easy, easy.”

Hannibal’s eyes fall close, and the energy thrumming through Bedelia’s body begins to fade as she studies the man lying nude and worn before her. This was true trust, she had realized their first night together in Europe, when he had not dared speak to her of his actions in Baltimore but chose instead to fall asleep, clutching her so tightly she feared she would never breathe again.

But this was something even more.

Bedelia smiles as she shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, her toes just touching the floor. Her small fingers brush his hair, dipping to dance across his brow, his nose, his lips.

“Sleep,” she speaks, “you need it.”

She feels him stir in what might be protest, but she pins him with an insistent hand upon his shoulder.

“Sleep,” she repeats, commands, and Hannibal stills. Bedelia reaches to pull the sheet up around his hips, and stands. “I will ask no more of you tonight but that you rest. You are safe here, Hannibal,” she reminds him. “You are safe.”

He does not need to tell her that he believes her words to be true, because some part of Bedelia lets her believe the same. _I can protect him. I will protect him._


End file.
